


Antithesis

by QueenofBaws (Sisterwives)



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 16:12:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2235294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sisterwives/pseuds/QueenofBaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're the youngest members of the Organization. They should gravitate to one another, should find solace in their similarities. Sometimes, though, differences are too monumental to overcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Antithesis

There’s a sort of excitement in the newcomer’s eyes that Zexion simply cannot abide. It’s the look of someone who has found reprieve—has found _kin_ —having been lost too long among strangers. He understands and hates it at once, and makes it a personal mission to see it stomped out wholly and precisely.

He knows it’s not the boy’s fault, but that only serves to infuriate him further. The pit of his chest is full of dark, tangled wisps of thorns and rage, heavy with anger and venom and the thick red taste of copper. But he has no heart, has not _had_ a heart in so very long, and he feels no guilt for his comportment. There are days where that absence of guilt is all that keeps him alive.

Roxas is so very, very young. Zexion knows that’s what’s to blame—he sees the Schemer’s diminutive frame, his bright eyes, his fragile features, and sees another child. The other members are older and larger, broader and creased with age. It’s hard to determine whether or not Zexion has so much as cut his adult molars, just by looking at him. But the gap is there, all the same. It lingers between them, not solely in number of years, but in experience and in knowledge and in _suffering_.

For a long time, he’s silent; he’s a small spiky-haired zombie wandering the halls as the others try to poke and pry words from him. It’s something with which Zexion, too, is accustomed. Only Roxas’ silence speaks of confusion and daze, where Ienzo’s reticence had been a self-imposed shield, protecting those around him from his daggered tongue. When Roxas begins to speak, there’s laughter and hope in his voice. Zexion can’t help but wonder if _he_ had ever spoken in such a way, before his words became his weapons, before laughter turned to ash in his throat.

He doubts it.

The first time the would-be Keyblade wielder approaches him, he makes it a point to pretend he doesn’t notice. Instead, he turns the page of his lexicon as he lounges in the safety of the shadow Lexaeus casts. Caught between the silence of his superiors, tension begins to radiate off of Roxas, thick and palpable in the air. Zexion can smell it on him, thrumming with undertones of anticipation and uncertainty. He opens his mouth to speak, but Zexion cuts him off with an unceremonious flick of his wrist.

“If you’re prepared for your mission,” he says, voice lilted with impatient lethargy, “Talk to _Saïx_. Not me.” He closes his book with a papery _thump_ and glances up at Roxas, eyebrows pinching together in exasperation, “Do you _see_ a mission assignment in my hands?” He doesn’t wait for him to answer. “No. You don’t.” Waving him off in the Diviner’s direction, he settles himself back down into the cushions of the couch, ignoring the piqued look he can positively _feel_ boring into the back of his head. But he doesn’t need to explain himself, least of all to Lexaeus.

He doesn’t need to explain himself to _anyone_. He is one step away from being the Superior’s right hand. It was _he_ who had the labs built, it was _he_ who performed the bulk of the damned experiments, and he will be _damned_ if any of the leeches among their ranks call into question his authority.

“ _Number. Six._ ”

There’s little room for argument in Saïx’s tone, and so Zexion gets up without a second thought, Lexicon dissipating tracelessly into the air. He saunters through the portal and into the twilit world beyond, Roxas close in tow. The mission is basic and laughably simple, but Roxas still requires constant instruction. To his credit, Zexion retains his cool civility up until the very end. He explains the mechanics of returning to the Castle with detail bordering on the encyclopedic, and feels his patience begin to ebb at the blank expression on the other’s face.

He clucks his tongue and waves him off to further explore the town, hanging behind and watching his progress from afar. All the while, the spindles in his chest tighten and coil in turn, humors imbalanced and wanting as he studies the other Nobody. _This_ is supposed to be their ultimate tool, their last resort, their _savior_ —a tiny, confused boy with some untold, unspoken, _unseen_ talent that they were all simply supposed to trust and believe in.

The story is a familiar one, he thinks.

Ienzo had been a child, had been naïve to the plots and plans of those above him. He had done as he was told, if only to prove himself to those who stood taller and surer. Perhaps he hadn’t used a Keyblade, but he had _certainly_ been used to obtain hearts (and a _lot_ of them) for the furtherment of his superiors’ schemes. He had done _everything_ they had asked…everything and _more_. Just as Roxas would.

“Do I have to keep going?” Roxas asks, flushed and panting as he hops down from a ledge. “I’ve been studying this place for _ever_!”

Zexion levels his gaze and shrugs his shoulders breezily, casting a glance over his shoulder at the alleys beyond. “Of course not. You don’t _have_ to continue.” The look of relief that washes over the other Nobody’s face is, in a way, sickening, but Zexion no longer has any guilt to waste when he wipes it away. “Just like _I_ don’t _have_ to respect you, if you leave your work half-finished.”

The other’s expression falters, darkens, and then his small frame slips away into the shadows of the alleys to soldier on in his reconnaissance. Zexion watches him until he disappears, listens until the echoes of his footsteps die out. The strange tightening in his gut intensifies.

Tonight Roxas will be falling asleep with the sticky taste of ice cream on his lips, the result of a mission well done and an evening well spent with someone he may one day call a friend.

But Zexion will lie awake for hours, tormented by the phantom scent of blood and smoke, the sounds of the labs and screams. He will try to remember the strange taste of sea salt sweetness, only to realize he _cannot_.

These are things he can, but will not, put into words. He doesn’t have to explain himself to _anyone_.

Roxas will figure it all out, in due time. Just as Ienzo had.


End file.
